Better Man
by Thaddottir
Summary: Everything was going great for Killian Jones, until it wasn't. (No Curse AU, working on the idea that some "fairy tale creatures" are capable of moving between realms as they please.)


**No Curse AU, working on the idea that some "fairy tale creatures" are capable of moving between realms as they please. Emma is one of those creatures, Killian is from our world. This is kind of a re-write of something I wrote for another fandom several years ago. (Like, I took the basic concept of the original fic, and then started from scratch.) I posted this to Tumblr a few days ago, thought I'd share it here, as well.**

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Everything was going great for Killian Jones, until it wasn't. He had a mildly successful band, a woman who loved him. He was attractive, charismatic, and financially comfortable. He may have grown up an orphan, but he made up for that in spades, now, surrounding himself with friends who doubled as family.

And then it all fell apart.

Milah, it turned out, was married to a psychotic and vengeful man. Killian had no idea. She wore no ring, she never mentioned another man. Looking back on it later, Killian could see the signs; she could only meet with him at certain times, they never went to her place, when they went out together, it was only on the other side of town.

It was on one of those nights, when they were on a date on the other side of town, that they were cornered into an alley by Milah's husband. He was flanked by two large and threatening looking men, who, at a nod of his head, moved to restrain Killian.

Milah dropped to her knees in front of her husband; she begged and pleaded for Killian's life. He just watched her in silence, and the tears ran down her face. It was when he reached into his coat, looking at her with a smirk on his face, that it dawned on her. He wasn't out for her lover's life. He was out for hers. She stood, resignation on her face. She'd rather be dead, anyway, than live another day with a man she couldn't stand.

Killian's shout echoed in the alleyway, louder than the gunshot, as Milah's body crumpled to the ground. The adrenaline surged through his body, allowing him to break free from the muscle the older man had holding him back. Killian tackled the man, landing one punch with his left hand before the goons pulled him off again. He was pinned to the ground as the man approached him, removing what looked like a large dagger from the top of his walking cane. The look on the man's face was almost feral as the dagger cut through the air. There was excruciating pain in Killian's left wrist, then all the knew was darkness.

Killian woke alone, in a hospital bed. His left hand was gone. He must have been beaten after Milah's husband took his hand; it hurt to breathe, and his face felt swollen. He fumbled for the nurse call button, and waited patiently when the woman came, checked his vitals, and left again to retrieve the doctor.

"Mister Jones," the doctor addressed Killian as he entered the room and approached the bed. "I'm Doctor Whale," he held his hand out to shake. Killian grasped the doctors hand, giving it two quick shakes before dropping it, thinking it was a good thing he'd lost his left hand, and not his right, or that would have been awkward. "This is Sheriff Humbert," he indicated the man who entered behind him, "he's got some questions to ask you. Afterwards, we'll discuss your injuries and treatments." The doctor exited the room, leaving Killian alone with the sheriff.

"Mister Jones, I understand you've had a trying experience, but we need to discuss some details. Do you remember what happened to you?"

"Bits and pieces. My lady friend and I were out for the evening." He took a deep breath, wincing at what he assumed were broken ribs, and debated how much to tell the sheriff. "We were taking a short cut through an alley, to go to the cinema, and we were cornered by two men I didn't recognise. I remember one of them holding me back, while the other started throwing punches. I remember her screaming for them to stop. Then it all goes black."

"Could you describe the men that attacked you?" Sheriff Humbert removed a small notebook and pen from his back pocket, flipping it open to take notes.

"It was dark, and the alleyway wasn't every well lit. They were tall, taller that you, and heavily built. Typical thugs." Killian decided to leave Milah's husband out of the story all together. Piecing together the events as he spoke to the sheriff, he realized that the man was familiar. He was known only as Mister Gold, and he ran pretty much all illegal operations in New England.

"Hmm," the sheriff nodded, turning his notebook back a couple of pages. "Did you know that your companion was married?" Killian shook his head at the question. "Milah Gold, maiden name Attwater. Know who her husband is?" Killian shook his head again. "Mister Gold, biggest crime boss on the East Coast. Ring any bells?"

"The name sounds familiar, I'm sure I've seen him on the news, if he's as notorious as you're implying." The use of the past tense struck him. Milah was married. Was. "Where is Milah? Is she okay?

"I'm sorry, Mister Jones. She was DOA. Bled out before the ambulance even reached you." The sheriff's delivery of the news was insensitive, cold, but Killian could see the regret in is eyes. "Are you sure it was just two faceless thugs, Mister Jones, that assaulted you, and murdered your companion?"

"I've told you all I can remember, sheriff." He could feel the sob building in his chest. He clamped down on it, refusing to break down in front of this stranger. The sheriff nodded, and returned the notebook to his back pocket. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card.

"If you remember anything else, here's my card." Killian took the card, and stared at it. '_Graham Humbert, Sheriff, Storybrooke, ME._' "I'm sorry for your loss, Mister Jones." He nodded at Killian, and exited the room.

Killian spent a week in the hospital. His flatmate, August, came to check on him from time to time, but he spent much of his time alone. He was fitted with a prosthetic hand, and went through physical therapy to learn how to not have a real hand. It was awkward, and frustrating, and Killian thought he'd rather be completely handless, than use this poor imitation.

The only plus side of the whole ordeal were the painkillers he was given for his hand and ribs. He'd had surgery when he was first brought to the hospital. His hand was gone; the police searched the scene, but it never turned up, so the doctors did what they could to stop the bleeding, cover the exposed bone and muscle, and prevent infection. The healing would be a long process and much of the end of his stump would be scar tissue. But with the pain killers, he found it hard to give a damn. There wasn't much left to give a damn _about_. His love was dead. He wasn't sure he'd be able to continue his role in the band; not much of a demand for one handed guitar players. His friends and band mates had all been MIA since he'd been admitted, with the exception of August. So much for "family."

August picked him up from the hospital. A hospital orderly pushed Killian in a wheelchair, and helped him into August's car. Killian asked August to stop by the pharmacy, so Killian could get the prescription the doctor called in for him. Ninety glorious oxycodone pills. The rest of the trip home was made in silence, which suited him just fine. He had nothing to talk about, anyway.

August carried Killian's bag from the car. In the lobby, they passed the school teacher that lived downstairs. She said nothing, but Killian could see the pity in her eyes. He clamped down on his anger, and began the gruelling trek upstairs. He'd never been more irritated at the building's lack of elevator.

By the time he reached the door to his flat, he was sweating buckets. Everything _ached_. His head was pounding. August had jogged ahead of him, and already had the door open, and placed Killian's bag in his room. He went straight to his room without a word to his flatmate, and closed the door behind him. He rooted through the bag that had been dropped on his bed, and withdrew the paper pharmacy bag containing his painkillers. He ripped the bag open, then the bottle, and dry swallowed two pills. He recapped the bottle, and laid down on the bed. He quickly became drowsy, and dropped into a dreamless sleep.

And thus his days went by. Wake, have a piece of toast, take his pills, nap, nightmares, wake in a cold sweat, shower, take his pills, nod off in front of the TV for an hour, pick at a dinner that August forced on him, take his pills, go to sleep for the night, nightmares, rinse, repeat. A month and a half of days where he rarely left the flat. August tried to get him out, at first, but after a couple of weeks, his attempts got fewer and fewer. His band mates tried to get him out for practice, but he refused. What was the point? They said he could still sing, and they could just find another guitar player, but Killian wouldn't have it. If he wasn't playing guitar, he had no purpose. And eventually his band mates gave him up for a lost cause as well.

August started spending less time at the flat. He picked up a girlfriend not long before Killian's hospital stay. Killian assumed his flatmate was spending most of his time with her, he knew he was depressing to be around; he wouldn't be around _himself_, if he could help it. He rarely spoke. He spent most of his time in bed, or zoned out in front of the TV. He wasn't writing any more, either lyrics, or the short stories he used to find a small amount of joy in creating. And that's where the painkillers came in handy. They didn't just dull the physical pain, but the emotional pain as well.

He found his supply of pills dwindling. Fortunately he had a follow up appointment with Doctor Whale, and he convinced the physician that the pain was still severe, and he got a prescription for another 90 pills for his effort.

He went through those 90 pills in 30 days. Two weeks faster than the last ninety. The doctor refused to renew the prescription.

Killian was at a loss. There was no way he could function at all, without the pills, or something like them. He knew where to find dealers who would likely have something, in the seedier part of town, but the very thought repulsed him. Naturally, all the dealers operated under Mister Gold. He couldn't stand the thought of his money going to that bastard, when it was his fault Killian was in this situation.

He suffered through two days of pain, of the shakes and sweats that accompanied withdrawal, before he finally caved.

Finding a dealer was easier than he thought it would be. He was even lucky enough to find one that had exactly what he'd already been taking. It didn't even cost as much as he thought it would. He dry swallowed three pills on the walk home, and passed out on his bed as soon as he was though the door. For the first time in days, he didn't dream.

He went though ninety pills in three weeks.

Two months passed, with three trips to the dealer, who, on the last visit, had suggested Killian's body may be adapting to the oxycodone, and maybe he ought to try something stronger.

He stopped at the coffee shop on his walk home from the dealer. August hadn't been home in days, and they were out of coffee. He placed his order for a white chocolate mocha, and leaned against the wall near the counter, waiting for his drink to be ready. He thought about what the dealer said. Something stronger. Killian wasn't stupid, he knew '_something stronger_' meant heroin. He knew it would numb the pain, but he also knew it could kill him. He had idols who'd died by the stuff, and while, _yeah_, he was miserable, he wasn't sure he was ready to die. Not that he was really living much of a life. But at least it was _something_.

The word "chocolate" jolted him out of his contemplation. He took the waiting cup from the counter, and exited the coffee shop. He hadn't walked far, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, and it was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping to the floor.

"Excuse me, that's my hot chocolate," said the woman standing in front of him. Killian looked dumbly at the cup he was holding, and back to the woman. She was beautiful. Beautiful wasn't even the right word. She was stunning; he was _stunned_ by her. Her golden hair fell over her shoulders in soft curls. Her eyes were shining emeralds. Her skin was pale, beautiful, the colour of white oleanders. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he realized he was staring, and making an idiot of himself. She held the coffee she was holding out to him, and he looked at the cup held in his own hand. Sure enough, it didn't say 'Killian," as expected.

"Emma," he said, almost reverently. "I'm sorry."

"Killian," she replied. plucking the cup from his hand, and replacing it with his proper cup. "No worries." She smiled then, revealing teeth that looked like pearls. Beautifully white, with an almost sinister edge to them. His name on her lips sent a shock through him that he couldn't explain. "See you around, then." She raised her cup to him, spun on her heel, and walked in the opposite direction. He watched her walk away, and stood there still, even after she'd turned a corner and disappeared from his sight.

After several minutes of just standing there like an idiot, Killian finally resumed his walk home, in a daze not created by the oxys. Who _was_ that woman? Where did she come from? Would he see her again? How could just a few moments with that stranger make him forget the pain in his chest, the pain of loss, the pain of addiction?

He started going to the coffee shop every day at the same time, hoping, if nothing else, for at least a glimpse of her. His worst fear was that she was just passing through town, he'd never see her again. He started writing again, at the coffee shop. Not the lyrics or stories he'd written before, but poems, sonnets, odes; dedicated to her beauty, her mystery, his growing desire for redemption.

He found his desire for the painkillers lessened during the time he spent waiting for the stranger, the golden goddess. _Emma_. But as soon as he got home, addiction seized him once more.

Weeks passed without a sighting. August moved out, informing Killian that if he wanted to isolate himself, then he was done trying to help him. Somehow he had no idea the Killian had become addicted to the painkillers. He wasn't trying to hide it, but somehow he managed it well. Aside from missing the groceries August would bring home, Killian hardly noticed he was gone. He was starting to feel his daily pilgrimage to the coffee shop was pointless. He went a full week without leaving the flat, barely even leaving his bed. He was plagued with nightmares; the more pills he took, the worse they got. When he ran out, he wondered if it was even worth getting more, but when the symptoms of withdrawal overtook him once again, the decision was made for him. He was out the door without a second thought.

The coffee shop was on the route to the dealer. Killian looked in the window as he passed, not even bothering to hope for her. It was just force of habit by now. But today, it seemed the Fates were working in his favour. (Or perhaps _against_ it; he hadn't showered or shaved in a week, and the shakes were in full force.) He considered continuing on, but he couldn't move on when he heard the bell on the shop's door chime.

"Killian?" Gods, her voice sounded like angels to a damned soul. It'd been weeks, _and she remembered him._ He was surprised she even _recognised_ him; he looked like shit, he knew. Half the time he didn't even recognise himself.

"Emma." He turned to face her. His voice sounded rough, gravelly. He realized he hadn't spoken at all during his week of self imposed solitary confinement. He met her eyes, confused by the concern he saw there. Why would this person he'd exchanged half a dozen words with be _concerned_ about him?

"Are you okay?"

"I, uh." He hesitated.

"Do you wanna have come coffee? No offence, but you look like you could use a cup or two." She flashed a smile at him, and he remembered Gold's sinister grin as he relieved Killian of his left hand. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. Emma's face fell slightly, and he realized she thought he was shaking his head at her invitation.

"No offence taken. You're right, I really could use a cup."

By unspoken agreement, they met for coffee every day. Killian still sought out his dealer after his first meeting with Emma, but the more time he spent with her, the longer it took him to go through his stash. Over four months went by, and Killian only went to his dealer twice. He didn't get high before he met up with Emma. He didn't need to. Just being around her made him feel better, lighter. The weight of his bad decisions suddenly bearable in her presence. Being with her was like going to confession. She absolved him of all his sins.

He woke from his first nightmare in ages, drenched in sweat and unable to breathe. He looked at his bedside table. The clock read twelve noon. He was due to meet with Emma in an hour. Then he noticed the date, the small digital numbers taunting him. It'd been a year. A year since he lost his hand. A year since Milah was taken from him. He knew he should get out of bed. Shower, dress. Leave the pills next to the clock alone. Emma would be waiting for him. He knew it would do no good to dwell on the past, on things that were beyond his power to control, to change. He also knew he wasn't that strong. He grabbed the pill bottle, and shook out a handful of pills. He hesitated only for a moment, before swallowing them, and waited for oblivion to overtake him.

He swam in and out of consciousness. Harmless dreams transformed to nightmares, and back again. He watched Milah get shot again and again. Sometimes it wasn't Milah, but Emma that was taken from him by Gold's hand. Sometimes it was Emma he watched drop lifeless to the ground, the blood staining her golden curls.

He opened his eyes, and his vision swam. A wave of nausea crashed over him. He took several deep breaths, willing it to pass. He felt something cool on his forehead, and brought his hand up to feel a wet wash cloth draped across his head. He pushed himself up on his elbows, and looked around quickly, before dizziness overtook him and forced him flat again. He heards sounds coming from the kitchen, and figured August must've come by to check on him, and found him in a less than stellar state.

"Killian?" He flinched at the female voice coming from his doorway. No, no, no, that wasn't what he expected _at all._ He never wanted Emma to see him like this. He squeezed his eyes shut as her footsteps approached his bed. He felt the mattress sink down next to him, and the wash cloth was removed from his head. She placed her hand on his forehead, and he couldn't suppress the shudder at the contact. "Your fever has gone down, that's good." He looked at her then, and guilt tore through him at the concerned look she wore. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he croaked. He reached over to his bedside table, and picked up a glass of water. As he took it from her, he realized his bottle of pills was missing.

"I flushed them," she answered his unasked question. He could only nod, and after taking a long drink, returned the glass to her. "I was worried about you, when you didn't show up for coffee. I asked around a little bit, and found out where you live. You neighbour, Mary Margaret? She let me in." Emma explained. Killian forgot that the woman downstairs had a key, for emergencies. "I found you here, you were screaming."

"I was dreaming."

"For two days, Killian." His eyes went wide at that information. He didn't think he took that many pills. He certainly hadn't paused to count them first, but he didn't think it had been enough to knock him out for that long. "What happened?"

Killian hesitated. During the previous months, meeting for coffee every day, he and Emma talked about lots of things, but the one subject they never broached was his hand. She somehow knew not to ask about it, and he never brought it up. Now, he felt he wanted to tell her everything. About his hand, about Milah and their affair. About Milah's husband. About his addiction. And so he did.

He talked for ages. When the shakes came, (he wasn't sure if they were from the story, or the withdrawals,) she held his hand, when he cried, she cried with him. Eventually, he reached the end of the tale. Emma had laid down beside him, his hand still clutched in hers. She brought her other hand to his cheek, brushing away a stray tear.

"I'm so sorry, Killian." He gave her a sad smile, and they stayed like that, until sleep overtook them both.

When Killian woke in the morning, there was a weight on his chest. He looked down to see blonde curls spread over him. Some how they came together in their sleep; her head on his chest, his arms wrapped around her, their legs tangled together. It was something he never had, with Milah. In all the time they spent together, she never spent the night, he never got to wake with her in his arms. Waking with Emma in his arms, though, he didn't regret not having that experience with Milah. It never would have felt like this, with her. Not as _right_ as it felt with Emma, the way they fitted together so perfectly.

Emma started to stir, and Killian couldn't help the smile that broke across his face as she looked at him, still caught in the haze of sleep. Her cheeks went pink when she realized where she was, and before she could apologise, Killian covered her mouth with his own. She went tense for a moment, and Killian worried that she'd pull away, but then she sighed, and melted into the kiss. She licked his bottom lip lightly, and he gladly gave her entrance. He groaned as her warm tongue swept over his own. He ran his hand down her side, and grabbed her ass, using his hips to push her over to straddle him. She moaned into his mouth as he tilted his hips up slightly, making his desire for her known. She broke the kiss, and rested her forehead against his.

"Is this a good idea?" She asked.

"Darling, I've been living in the past for far too long." He moved his hand up to cup her face, she closed her eyes and smiled. "It's time to start living in the present."

It occurred to Killian, once or twice, that withdrawing from a drug ought to be harder than this, especially when one had been addicted to said drug for a year. He expected days, if not weeks, of shaking and sweats, fever and vomiting. But with the exception of that first day, when Emma found him in his flat, he'd experienced none of that. Perhaps he was too distracted, too consumed with Emma. For weeks, they rarely left his bed, let alone the flat. They called for take out more often than not, only going to the market for necessities occasionally.

When they made love, when her eyelids fluttered with the ecstasy of climax, he was in a heaven he never imagined. She was his goddess, and he worshipped her. She was his saviour. He wasn't sure how he lived, before her. (And he knew, in the back of his mind, that this wasn't truly living. He knew that he was just replacing one addiction with another, but that was a truth he wasn't ready to face, just yet.)

At first, he tried to ignore the signs that something was wrong with her. He tried not to notice that her beautiful pale skin had taken on an ashen hue, her gemstone eyes had dulled, even her hair had lost its lustre.

"What's wrong, lass?" He asked her one morning, as they laid together, breaths heavy, limbs tangled. She signed, and turned away from him.

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, love. You're something of an open book." Emma looked back over her shoulder, and rolled her eyes at the grin on Killian's face. He gathered her in his arms and waited for an answer.

"Killian, what do you know of the fey?"

"Fey?" Killian raised his eyebrows. Growing up in Ireland, he was no stranger to tales of the fair folk. "Mischievous, don't like being told 'thank you.' Sharp teeth," he bit down lightly on her shoulder, "like to bite." He chuckled as she turned to face him. "Green eyes."

"They're weak against iron, and can't be away from their kin for too long." A sad expression flickered across her face.

"What are you saying, love?"

"I can't stay here with you, Killian." She took a shuddering breath and her eyelids slid shut, as she tried to prevent tears from falling. "I've stayed too long already, and I can't - I can't breathe any more. It's like my lungs are filled with water and I'm drowning."

Killian held her as she allowed the tears to fall. He kissed her for head, her cheeks, her nose. He knew there were no words he could use to comfort her, so he didn't waste them. He dropped light kisses down her neck, and when he moved to her collar bone, her breaths started to come shorter and sharper. She ran her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, and pulled him so that she was on her back, and he was on top of her. They made love gently, almost lazily, and though her tears continued to fall, she never closed her eyes.

Killian collapsed next to her, short of breath and over heated. He laid his arm across her, unwilling to lose physical contact with her, afraid that if he did, she'd disappear.

"I love you, Emma," he whispered into her shoulder as sleep attempted to pull him under.

"I love you, Killian." He looked at her face once more before surrendering to sleep, her eyes smiling, finally dry of tears.

When he woke, she was gone. He knew, he could feel it, that she wasn't just gone from the room, but gone from his life as well. Grief tore through him. How could he have allowed himself to fall asleep? How could he have just _laid_ there, oblivious, as she gathered her few possessions and walked out of his life forever? He knew there was nothing he could do, now. He didn't know who she was. He didn't know _what_ she was. He knew he would never find out.

He wandered aimlessly through his apartment, looking for some sign the the last few weeks with her hadn't simply been delusion, a fever dream brought on by his body fighting the symptoms of withdrawal. He briefly considered seeking out his old dealer; maybe he would take the man up on his suggestion that Killian needed something stronger than the pain pills he'd been relying on for so long. Perhaps it would drive away the pain of her absence.

Then he saw it, the glint of metal catching the sunlight on the kitchen counter. He picked it up, and let it dangle in front of him; the necklace she always wore, a circular silver pendant.

He knew, then, that he couldn't go back to the dealer. He couldn't lose himself that way again. If he went back to that, what would it all have been for? She was an angel, pulling him out of the blackness, cleansing him before he killed himself. No, he would not give in. He lost her, but he would be a better man for it.

He would be a better man.


End file.
